The Blood Red Iris
by The Red Hoodie
Summary: UNFINISHED. Sherlock Holmes might have just found his match in one Miss. Felton. And by match, he means opposite. And by opposite, he means the most infuriating woman he's met in his life.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the characters or the places unique to the Sherlock fandom. I do own any original characters or case ideas that come up within this writing.

**Title: **The Blood-Red Iris**  
>Author: <strong>A Tail For Lemonade**  
>Rating: <strong>T for safety**  
>Chapters: <strong>1/6**  
>Summary: <strong>Sherlock Holmes might have just found his match in one Miss. Felton. And by match, he means opposite. And by opposite, he means the most infuriating woman he's met in his life.**  
>Warnings: <strong>There is an original character involved here. Don't make the assumption that it'll make this story bad, because I don't think so.**  
>AN: **This is my first Sherlock story, and my first stab at writing Sherlock, who is pretty difficult to write, so please give me a little bit of slack. Also, thanks to my sweet beta, who told me that my characterization was good, which made it a bit easier for me to publish this!

Also, this takes place after Hounds of Baskerville, and can be viewed as either pre-Reichanbach or just a new tale entirely in place of it.

88

Chapter One

221B Baker Street. It had been more than easy to find him. It had taken her longer to set her affairs in order, pack and get on a train than it had to find one Sherlock Holmes. Resting her luggage against her legs, she lifted a slender hand and pressed the bell. Her heart hammered for reasons unknown, nerves she supposed, and she nearly jumped out of her skin as the door opened.

An older woman in flower print stood there, smile on her face. "Ooh, hello dear," she said with such kindness that Iris had to smile too. "I bet you're here for Sherlock. Come in." She stepped back and leaned against the railing. "Boys! Client!"

"Oh, no I…" Iris trailed off as she grabbed her bags and shuffled into the hall.

A moment later, a small man pulling on a green jacket came down the stairs. "Oh hello," he said, spotting her. "John Watson," he put out a hand which she shook, "I was just heading out. Sherlock's upstairs." He gave her a smile and nod and walked out the door behind her.

Iris stood where she was, going through possible conversations in her head when the older woman showed up again. "Are you going somewhere, dear?" she asked, nodding at Iris's two stuffed bags.

"I just came from Cardiff and haven't gotten to my hotel yet," Iris replied, glancing up the stairs.

The woman nodded. "Just leave them here and go on up."

"Have they gone, Mrs. Hudson?" a deep voice called from upstairs.

"Of course not Sherlock, don't be rude," Mrs. Hudson replied, guiding Iris to the stairs.

Iris gave her a smile and walked up the stairs, slow as a snail.

"I haven't got all day," Sherlock called, forcing Iris to speed up. There were two doorways, the one on the left showing a kitchen and table filled with scientific equipment. She took the few steps forward and spotted a parlor. "Come in." His voice was annoyed.

She stepped through the doorway and there he was, standing before the mantle, hands pressed together, back to her. His eyes jumped to the mirror and Iris sucked in a breath as he turned.

"Fascinate me," he said, tapping index fingers together, "or get out. I'm busy."

Iris swallowed. "Don't you recognize me, Sherlock?" she asked, meeting his gaze.

Sherlock moved his eyebrows ever so slightly. The woman's accent was English, but tainted with another, recognizable one suggesting that she spend her maturing years in Wales. Her hair was a remarkable red, dyed at first glance, but natural at a second, pulled back simply and without much care for appearance. Tan coat, immaculate; plain black heels, slightly worn; and no jewelry, suggesting she disliked clutter and had no one to dress for. "I'm afraid not," he replied.

She let out a small sigh. "Honestly," she muttered under her breath. "Iris Felton. We lived across from one another growing up. Surely you haven't forgotten."

To be perfectly honest, he had forgotten. Or at least, pushed memories of that part of his childhood into the back recesses of his mind. However, they were easy enough to retrieve, and once he had, his eyebrows rose in surprise and he took one step closer. She was obviously different from his memories, no longer a young girl with thin limbs, but a curved woman nearly his height with those shoes. "I haven't," he said. "It's been twenty years."

Iris rolled her eyes. "Don't be daft. It's only been sixteen, Sherlock."

He knew that. "I was rounding."

"I've moved back," she pushed on excitedly. "I found you easy enough, through that Dr. Watson's blog." Just then it settled on her that the John Watson she had just met was the same person.

Sherlock dropped his hands, shoving them into trouser pockets. "Do you have a case for me to solve?" he asked with usual abruptness.

Iris's face dropped slightly. "Well, no."

"Then why did you come here?"

She was taken aback by the words and felt as though she had shrunk as small as a mouse. "I just…I had thought it would be nice to see an old friend but apparently I was wrong." She didn't know why this hurt so much. What was she expecting? She should have realized that Sherlock would have changed…for the worse, especially after how Mycroft used to act.

"I don't have friends," Sherlock said. "I think I've wasted enough time here. See yourself out." He turned his back to her to resume his previous position.

Iris didn't move. She gaped at him. "W—wasted?" she muttered under her breath. Ginger fury bubbled and she snatched up the closest small object—a square pillow from the sofa—and tossed it at him, hitting him between the shoulder blades. "Wasted?" she exclaimed.

Sherlock turned around slowly. "Excuse me?"

"I came all the way here when I got off the train! My hotel is in the opposite direction!" She picked up a magazine from the table and tossed it. He dodged it. "The least you could be is pleased to see me! Do you really not remember how close we were as children?" She picked up something hard and round—a crystal ashtray—and lobbed it.

He caught it. "Stop being so childish."

"Sherlock! For fuck's sake." She threw her hands up, face flushed. "I am so sorry I've wasted your precious time. I won't be seeing you again." With one last narrowing of her eyes, she turned on a heel and started down the stairs just as Mrs. Hudson arrived at the bottom of them with a tray of tea.

"Oh, are you leaving?" she asked as Iris angrily grabbed her bags from their spot in the corner. "I've just made tea."

"I am sorry," Iris said sharply, standing up straight and glancing at the older woman. "But Sherlock is entirely too…idiotic for me to stand." She left Mrs. Hudson repeating the word 'idiotic' under her breath and stepped onto the street, slamming down her luggage and breaking a wheel on the smaller of two. She let out a frustrated scream and flagged down a taxi.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the characters or the places unique to the Sherlock fandom. I do own any original characters or case ideas that come up within this writing.**  
>Title: <strong>The Blood-Red Iris**  
>Author: <strong>A Tail For Lemonade**  
>Rating: <strong>T for safety**  
>Chapters: <strong>2/6**  
>Summary: <strong>Sherlock Holmes might have just found his match in one Miss. Felton. And by match, he means opposite. And by opposite, he means the most infuriating woman he's met in his life.**  
>Warnings: <strong>There is an original character involved here. Don't make the assumption that it'll make this story bad, because I don't think so.**  
>AN: **Alright, I think I nailed it with the first one, characterization wise according to Carlie ^-^. Unfortunately, this one was sort of hard to keep in character for the first half. I hope you can forgive me!

88

Chapter Two

When John returned to the flat an hour and a half later, after a rather awkward lunchdate, he found Sherlock perched in a chair, correcting the television. Nothing terribly unusual. The doctor unbuttoned his jacket.

"No case?" he asked, remembering the woman from before.

"Did you have a nice date? Who was it this time? That veterinarian?" Sherlock replied, not looking away from the screen.

"Uh…" John's eyes swept down to the floor, where a pillow and magazine were laying on the floor between the two chairs. "Greta, yeah. Sherlock, what's this?" He pointed at the items that didn't belong on this side of the room.

Sherlock moved his gaze from the television to the floor. "That woman from before…she threw them at me."

John's eyebrows lifted. "She…_threw_ them at you?"

"Yes. And the ashtray from Buckingham Palace."

John picked both of the items up and returned them to their places on the couch and table before spinning rather quickly as Sherlock yelled at the TV once again. "Wait a minute. Why was she throwing things at you? Were you _that_ rude? I should have stayed," he added under his breath.

"I'm not rude," Sherlock replied, pushing himself out of the chair. "She assumed things that she shouldn't have."

"Like what? That you would help her?"

"No. That she and I were friends." Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen, and John shook his head at the words.

"Are you saying you _know_ her?" John asked, following Sherlock.

"No need to sound so surprised, John. And I only knew her as a child," Sherlock specified, sitting down at the table.

John leaned against the doorframe and nodded as he spoke. "Oh, that makes sense. She came to visit you, as a childhood friend, you, being your usual self, were insensitive, causing her to throw things at you and leave. Am I right?"

"Are you mocking me?"

"No. You're not the only one who can work things out, you know. I spend enough time with you, I can figure it out."

"Are you being feisty? I didn't peg you for an emotional woman." Sherlock glanced over.

John just sighed and shook his head, turning around and walking over to his computer to check his blog.

88

Lestrade called, saying there was a case that was 'made for Sherlock', and it took little convincing from John to get him to go down to the hospital. It had been a handful of days since the Iris incident, and she had been true to her word: Sherlock hadn't seen her. Although that was relatively easy, since he didn't leave the flat, but at least she hadn't come back begging for an apology or whatever it was grown women begged for from childhood…friends.

Molly Hooper had the corpse out when they got there. She had put on red lipstick when Lestrade told her a certain detective was coming. The Christmas party flashed through her mind, but she did it anyway. There was no point in denying her feelings now, she might as well live in sweet oblivion. It might disappear eventually.

The D.I. was standing outside of the morgue when Sherlock and John arrived, so that he could explain some background of the case since it wasn't exactly fresh, but it ended up not being as straightforward as anyone had thought. Hence, Sherlock Holmes.

However, as life would have it, just as Lestrade moved to push open one of the swinging doors, a heightened voice echoed down the hall in a curse and a moment later a red haired woman in a white lab coat came out of nowhere, furiously muttering under her breath. It was hard not to notice her, but it was John who said:

"Sherlock, isn't that the woman from before? The one that threw a pillow and magazine at you?"

Sherlock would have preferred to deal with Molly's puppy dog looks and unconditional attention than deal with the human steam engine nearly upon them. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case.

Iris, through the steam that was metaphorically coming out of her ears, spotted the trio, and she just couldn't help herself. "Hello, Dr. Watson," she said, forcing a small smile.

"Hello," John replied, nodding and smiling at her. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name before."

"Iris Felton," she said shortly. "Hello Sherlock."

Sherlock, standing closest to the door and farthest from her, gave her a curt nod. He couldn't help but notice the shirt stain peeking from underneath the lab coat, probably tea. Flushed face, eyes bloodshot, suggesting that she wasn't sleeping well which would make her more frustrated and easily angered. She was still wearing those same black shoes from before, but it was far from a suitable shoe for working in a hospital.

Lestrade, seeing passed the anger, saw a woman, as a man unlike Sherlock does. He cleared his throat. "Iris, is it?" he started, holding out a hand.

Before he could reply, Iris spoke. "What are you doing at the morgue? Can't find any breathing women to tolerate you?" Her eyes were on Sherlock.

"We're in the middle of a case," he replied, pushing open the door with a hand.

"Have fun with that," Iris said, stepping back and half waving before walking toward the exit, leaving Lestrade to none-too-subtlety watching her leave.

Sherlock, still halfway in the hall, rolled his eyes. "Try to be more obviously, will you?" He disappeared into the morgue, and the others followed.

Molly couldn't hide her hopeful smile when the tall thin man in black came in with his usual finesse. "Hello Sherlock," he said too quickly, too brightly.

"Molly." His eyes trailed down to the covered corpse on the table.

It was then that she noticed the other two men join them, and her smile fell slightly. "Oh, hello John. Greg," she pressed her lips into a thin line and moved away from the table to the desk behind her to grab the autopsy file.

"Let me see it." Sherlock had pulled back the sheet revealing the man's sewn up chest, his eyes on the stitching, one hand outstretched. Molly placed the file in the waiting hand and stayed back, fiddling with the ring on her finger.

"I didn't do the autopsy myself, so I don't know how much I can help," Molly said, voice like a squeak.

"Yes, yes," Sherlock muttered, reading the file. "No damage to any organs. Any?" He glanced up when Molly didn't answer.

"Right, yes," she nodded fiercely. "No signs of any poisons or toxins, no wounds. It's as if he just fell asleep and didn't wake up."

Sherlock closed the file with a snap. "Lestrade, why am I here? I don't see why you needed my assistance. How long has he been here?" He turned to Molly.

"Three days."

"Three days! Autopsy after twenty-four hours…did you list all the possible drugs that could dissipate within that time? Check any crime scene weapons? And why is this considered a murder case in the first place?"

"There were three other bodies," Lestrade replied. "They were…clearly murdered. We took this man as evidence. He might be the murderer. Homicide and suicide."

Sherlock let out a frustrated breath, holding his tongue against saying he was surrounded by idiots. "What exactly am I supposed to be doing here? I work cases, I don't just help out the police."

John peeked down at the dead man and pointed. "I think you're supposed to just figure out how this guy died, Sherlock."

Sherlock glanced down at the file in hand. "Let me see the other bodies. And all the casework." He turned dramatically and walked out between John and Lestrade, who both said goodbye to Molly before following.

"Send it to me by tomorrow," Sherlock told the D.I. "This better not bore me."

John shook his head as Sherlock started to walk off. "Sorry, he's been moody," was all he said to Lestrade before half-jogging to catch up as they got to the doors. Sherlock flipped up his collar and John noticed a becomingly familiar figure leaning against the pillar holding up the small awning. She didn't appear to be smoking, but she certainly had that stance.

"Oh, it's you two," Iris sighed, straightening slightly and crossing her arms. "Have fun with your corpse?"

"No," Sherlock replied sharply, stepping off the sidewalk to hail a taxi.

Iris let out a sigh. "I do believe I've made him hate me," she muttered. John gave her a sympathetic look. "He's not…the way I expected him to be. He's completely changed."

"He's just…moody," John repeated himself, thinking of Irene Adler and that entire fiasco. "If you want, I can give you a ring when he's better. Give him a second chance. He can be alright…you just have to get to know him."

"All over again it seems," she nodded.

"John! Aren't you coming?" Sherlock's voice cut through the air as he opened the cab door.

Iris grabbed John's arm, pushing back his sleeve and grabbing a pen from her coat pocket. Scrawling down her number in perfect print across his wrist, she gave him a tight smile and he walked off to join Sherlock in the taxi. Iris watched the car drive off and then slumped back.

"I need a cigarette," she muttered, grabbing a crumpled pack of cinnamon gum from her skirt pocket. She unwrapped a piece and popped it in her mouth, closed her eyes and chewed. Cigarette, cigarette, cigarette, she repeated over and over in her mind, trying to trick herself, but half-failing. She shouldn't have come back to England. She missed the fresh air of Wales and all of her friends. But she couldn't go back there, not yet. No wonder she hadn't been sleeping; her mind had no time to rest.

Shaking her head, she spit her gum into the bin by the door in the unladylike fashion that had always made her mother cringe, and went inside to go back to her microscopes and petri dishes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the characters or the places unique to the Sherlock fandom. I do own any original characters or case ideas that come up within this writing.  
><strong>Title: <strong>The Blood-Red Iris  
><strong>Author: <strong>A Tail For Lemonade  
><strong>Rating: <strong>T for safety  
><strong>Chapters: <strong>3/6  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Sherlock Holmes might have just found his match in one Miss. Felton. And by match, he means opposite. And by opposite, he means the most infuriating woman he's met in his life.  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>There is an original character involved here. Don't make the assumption that it'll make this story bad, because I don't think so.  
><strong>AN: **Thanks to a lovely review, I've decided to finish posting this story. I'm not sure why I stopped exactly, since I love it (and Iris) so much, so I'm sorry for the wait and I hope this makes up for it! It's a long chapter!

88

Chapter Three

Three days later, John was sitting at his laptop, typing up a new blog entry when Sherlock jumped up from the couch, sending hoards of crime scene photos sliding onto the floor. "I've got it!" he exclaimed, walking _over_the low table and began to pace, diving into one of his longwinded speeches about who killed who for what reasons and how the mysterious fourth person had kicked the bucket. John tried to keep up but he had found his phone and was typing a message instead.

_Sherlock has gotten better._  
><em>-John Watson<em>

Just as Sherlock was finishing, his phone beeped.

_And?_

She didn't sign it, but perhaps John was just too used to Sherlock's texts.

_Dinner at Baker St. 6 o'clock. I'll mediate._

Sherlock scooped his phone off the coffee table and typed a message to Lestrade, who hated texts, but Sherlock was in no mood to talk with the D.I. at that moment.

_GOT IT. WHEN DO WE MEET? -SH_

Sherlock didn't even try picking up the mess of files on the couch. His phone rang with a call. He rolled his eyes, but answered, "Yes."

"It's bloody midnight, Sherlock," Lestrade's agitated voice came through.

"But I've figured out your case. Do you not want to know my results?"

John's phone bleeped and he saved the blog draft before his computer died, closed the cover and turned to his phone.

_I like Chinese. Do you know its midnight?_

John hadn't. No wonder his eyes had been drooping.

"No? Fine. Five tomorrow," Sherlock finished, ending the call.

_Yes, sorry for disturbing you_, John sent.

"Who on earth are you talking to this late?" Sherlock asked, suddenly appearing like a towering black figure from a Tim Burton film over John.

"No one." John hid the mobile screen and stood up. "I'm off to bed." Sliding the laptop under his arm, John walked from the parlor to his room up the stairs. Just as he set the machine on his desk, his phone bleeped.

_No bother. Goodnight, Dr Watson._

88

John Watson woke with a jerk as Sherlock's voice boomed from downstairs. Eyes blurry, John stumbled downstairs not sure what he expected to see. "Sherlock? Sherlock!" There was no consulting detective in the sitting room. Then Sherlock's voice came from downstairs.

"That's not what I ordered." At least he wasn't waking up the neighborhood with his voice this time.

"Whas-what's going on?" John asked, arriving at the bottom of the stairs, barefooted and in thin pajamas.

"This imbecile is contradicting me."

"Oh, good lord," John muttered, giving the delivery boy an apologetic look.

"I know exactly what I ordered and this is far from it."

"I told you," the boy tried to protest.

John stepped between the two of them. "Alright, you two. Sherlock, go upstairs."

"I'm sorry, are you telling me what to do John?"

"Yes," John said through clenched teeth.

Muttering about how incapable the human race is, Sherlock went up to his flat, leaving John to apologize, pay the poor lad and take the bag of breakfast up. "This is why I always do the ordering," John sighed, looking into the bag. "What _is_the matter with you Sherlock? There's really no need to yell at us less-intelligent folk."

Sherlock, pacing back and forth to the window, stopped and walked to the kitchen. "Are you mocking me?"

John just stuck his hand in the bag and pulled out a bagel. Bagel? He quirked an eyebrow.

"To answer your question about 'what is wrong with me', Lestrade is making me wait! Me, after spending three days going over inadequate evidence to figure out his dismal little murder case! One would think he would like to hear my deductions straight away. Who does he think he is?"

"Um, a detective inspector?" John mentioned, taking out what looked like a nutty muffin and handing it over in Sherlock's direction. "You finished a case, eat."

The muffin disappeared from his hand and John was thankful to find container of cream cheese and plastic knife in the brown bag. Grabbing a plate from the cabinet, John walked over to the desk. He pushed up his laptop screen and turned it on.

"When are you meeting Lestrade?" John asked, smearing cream cheese on the bagel and taking a bite. A bit chewy, but good.

"Five this afternoon," Sherlock replied, licking crumbs from his fingers.

"Five?" John said through a mouthful, so it came out more like "Fuuuwwwfff?" He swallowed. "How long's it gunna take?"

Sherlock turned on him and pointed an accusing finger. "Why? Is something going to happen?"

"I'm not a fortune teller-"

"Obviously," Sherlock muttered.

"But I'm ordering in from that Chinese place that closes at seven."

"When should I be back?"

John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock's unexpected reply. "Six...would be fine," he replied slowly.

"I know you've planned something, I might as well go along with it," Sherlock said, making it sound as if he was preparing to do something boring and expected. Definitely not a fascinating new case. Unless the delivery boy got murdered on the way to their doorstep.

John nodded, clicking up the draft from the previous night and chewing on a bite of bagel. "You want to run through your deductions again? So I can get them down this time?" He tilted his head at the screen to indicate. Sherlock's eyes flickered to the machine and gave a sharp nod, signaling he would be starting momentarily. John flexed his fingers.

88

It was five o'clock when Iris looked at the clock hanging above the door in her lab. Well, it wasn't entirely her lab. She shared it with two others, but they were rarely in at the same time. She didn't mind. Both of them were smart and nice, so she didn't mind if they were there. She didn't mind being alone either.

Sitting back from the microscope, she pulled out her phone and pulled up the texts from the previous night, between her and one John Watson. Six o'clock, he said. She had an hour, and she wasn't even sure if she was going to go to the hotel first.

No, stop it. She _had_ to go back. She smelled like bleach, and she was sure her hair was a mess. She generally couldn't give two shits as to how she looked, but John seemed like a respectable bloke and Sherlock had looked positively like a male model the two times she had seen him. Should she really be outshined by two men? She had _some_female pride buried deep inside.

Finishing up her last bit of paperwork, she stashed everything away to deal with either later—if Sherlock really pissed her off—or for the next day, hung up her lab coat and headed out to find a cab. Her hotel wasn't cheap. Not that she was very poor, but she hated to spend obnoxious amounts of money just for a bed. She should have picked somewhere less expensive, but this hadn't been her choice. She had tried looking for apartments in the paper, but it wasn't easy to do while she was trying to settle in at St. Bart's.

Taking the elevator to the seventh floor, she fished out an electronic key and opened the door. The light switches were just push buttons and she managed to turn them all on at once, nearly blinding herself. Muttering curses under her breath, she dumped her purse and jacket on the neatly made queen sized bed and sat down on the edge for a moment to pull off her greatly worn black pumps. She just loved them too much to throw them out. The day would come when one of the heels would come loose and she would be forced to either super glue it back on, or toss them.

Sighing, she tossed them randomly aside and stood, feeling that definitely awkward sensation one gets after taking your first steps on flat feet following a day in heels. Snatching the remote off the top of the telly, she flicked it on for background noise, not really caring what was on. She was actually going to get ready, for the first time in a long time, with some effort put into it.

She annoyed herself more with why she cared about looking nice, than actually getting dressed up. And it wasn't even dressed up, really. She was just going to fix her hair back properly and change outfits so she didn't smell like a stale, sterile lab over dinner. She didn't bother with makeup and had no jewelry to even consider putting on, so it was an easy feat.

Her wardrobe consisted of high wasted skirts and one pair of trousers, along with many flowy blouses of different colors as well as a few more form fitting ones that buttoned down the front. For tonight, she switched out her tan skirt and plain white button-down for her favorite charcoal skirt and silky tan blouse. It had ruffles down the front, and was probably the girliest thing she owned. She also traded in her black shoes for her only other pair: candy apple red, an inch or so higher than the blacks. She might not care for appearances, but she certainly loved her shoes. Her hair was frizzy and even wetting it down didn't help much, so she pulled it back and gelled the hell out of it so that it would stay put and not afro-out. Luckily, it wasn't humid or she might be mistaken for a circus clown.

With fifteen minutes until six o'clock, she went to her bed and fished out her wallet and keys and placed them in her coat. She didn't feel like toting around a purse all night. Just then, her phone beeped. It was John, who hadn't signed his texts since that first one. Good. She really hated being formal.

_Just come on up when you get here._

Fine with her. Slipping into her jacket, she kept her phone in hand and walked out. As she was flagging a cab, she wondered if she should bring anything, but decided against it. This wasn't a date or casual meeting; this was her giving Sherlock Holmes a second chance not to be an arse to her. She really hoped that Dr. Watson knew what he was doing.

88

"Is it…that veterinarian?" Sherlock asked from behind the newspaper he was pretending to read.

"Excuse me?" John replied, having just stepped in from his room.

"You're wearing your dating shoes. Did you invite her for dinner?" Sherlock specified.

Date shoes? John glanced down at his feet. "You noticed my shoes?"

Sherlock didn't respond. Why would he to such a dim question?

"Of course," John muttered. "And no, actually. I didn't invite _Greta_." He really emphasized her name, as if that would make Sherlock remember it. Actually, after that very awkward lunchdate almost two weeks prior, the two had smoothed things over and were doing quite well, however, that was not what this was about. John was trying to fix things between Iris and Sherlock. Or, at least, show Iris that Sherlock wasn't a complete git _all_of the time.

"Then what is it?" Sherlock folded up the paper noisily as the doorbell rang. John put up a hand, as if commanding Sherlock to stay seated—at which Sherlock gave John a rather scary look at being told what to do for a second time that day—and headed down to pay for the huge paper bag of food. Bringing it up, he put it on the counter and cleaned off half of the kitchen table so that he would at least lay everything out. Sherlock hovered in the background, mind working a mile a minute to figure out what John was planning.

He should know. Just think through John's actions of the passed few days. Nothing too unusual. He helped with the murder case and typed on his blog, went out to dinner with Greta one of the two nights and now he was being more dominating than Sherlock had seen him since he had pulled rank while at Baskerfields. No, there must be something more, something from earlier. Sherlock paced, hands pressed together and resting on his mouth. What else? Starting from the beginning, at St. Bart's when they were first seeing the corpse and they had met…Iris. Of course. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, remembering seeing the two of them chatting outside afterwards and Iris had written something on John's arm. Last night, John had begun texting someone, right after he had solved the case. Oh John…his actions would be greatly regretted, Sherlock was sure of it.

"Hello?" Right on cue, Iris's voice came wafting up from downstairs.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and watched the woman arrive at the top of the stairs. She didn't look much different than the first time she had come to Baker Street. The same coat, the same sloppily pulled back hair, however, she had made _some_effort in coming here, with her red shoes. Red was such a highly suggestive color choice.

Iris's caramel colored eyes fell upon the tall thin man and they narrowed slightly. "Hello Sherlock," she said coldy. No, be nice, she chided herself. John had said he was in a better way; she could only trust the kind doctor and pray for the best.

"Iris," Sherlock replied as John poked his head out of the kitchen.

"Hello John," Iris said, tone surprisingly warmer toward him as he said hello and helped her off with her coat.

Sherlock noticed all of that, obviously, as plain as reading print from a book. She was wearing a less bland shirt than he figured she wore normally, and she looked nervous for a moment when shedding the tan overcoat, suggesting she wasn't comfortable in her own skin. She had been very outspoken and emotionally passionate the previous two times he had seen her, both of which she had some sort of covering over her, a jacket and a lab coat. A security blanket of sorts.

"Oh, the call of Chinese food is much too strong to chat first." Iris broke his concentration as she walked to the table to sort through the little white boxes. John stood beside her, dwarfed by the woman who was now as tall as Sherlock with her change of shoes, pointing out each dish and telling her what they were. As if she had never seen Chinese food before. Sherlock scoffed quietly a few steps away.

"All I was able to scrounge for lunch were some stale biscuits and awful coffee," Iris was saying as she grabbed this and that from each container, piling the poor, underused china plates that John had cleaned while Sherlock was off spewing his deductions at Lestrade.

"That's right, you work at St. Bart's don't you?" John inquired.

"You know she does," Sherlock answered from behind them, looking at John no differently than usual, like he was a simpleton for asking a question he already knew the answer to.

John glared for a moment before turning back to Iris, who seemed finally to have piled enough food on her plate to feed her empty stomach. John added an eggroll to his plate and suggested sitting on the couch. Moments later, Sherlock had his own plate, sitting in his chair, which John had dragged to the other side of the coffee table. The whole arrangement of the room was enough to leave Sherlock quiet and interested as he listened to their conversation and noticed every body movement, every tone and facial expression.

"So, what is it that you do, Iris?" John asked, tone friendly as usual for the doctor.

Iris swallowed a mouthful of fried rice. "I'm a genetics scientist," she replied, with a hint of pride in her voice. She looked extremely comfortable sitting there, plate on her knees. Sherlock wagered she wouldn't look nearly as relaxed if he had been sharing that couch with her. Something about him put her on edge…she seemed forever angered with him, but he couldn't find the reason. Not yet.

John looked genuinely surprised. Sherlock wasn't. "Is that so?" John replied, nodding enthusiasm. "That's fantastic. How did you get into that line of work?"

Sherlock tuned out their conversation as he crunched down on a water chestnut.

Sherlock was not thinking of the past, of those childhood years when he had known Iris. He felt no need to dwell on things so far off, things that had no bearing on the present. No, he was surveying Iris purely in the now, with her being relatively unlike most women he met during cases. They were always well kept, especially if they came to him, or knew that he was coming to them—rare, but it did happen—and Iris was not. Like before, she didn't seem to be overly concerned with her appearance, still wearing no jewelry or even a hint of makeup even though she was in the presence of the opposite sex, which brought Sherlock to ponder if she perhaps preferred women, but no, she had made an effort with those shoes and she looked entirely too comfortable with John. She was practically flirting amid her distasteful use of unpolished nails as a utensil.

John finished his portion of food, which was marginally smaller than both Iris and Sherlock's, and sat back, keeping the plate in hand. "If you don't mind me asking, how did you come to London? I don't recall seeing you at St. Bart's before. Did you move recently?"

Iris nodded, licking a finger. "Yes. The day I first came here actually. I had…well, it's a long story. Shall I start from the beginning?" She glanced across the table at Sherlock, who she hadn't looked at the entire time. He was watching them—her—intently with striking blue eyes. Striking? Since when did she think of Sherlock in a kind way? There was nothing striking about him; he was too thin and pale for her liking. She didn't like the thought of weighing more than him, to be honest, and she was certain that she did. She looked at him, however, almost as if to ask permission to tell the tale of them as children, how they met and all that. Not exactly how she expected to spend the night, but she might as well if there were open ears.

"Oh please, continue," Sherlock said after a few moments, trying to sound interested, but failing. He went back to his rapidly cooling chow mien.

"I'm sure you know this," Iris started, "but Sherlock comes from a bit of money, and so do I, though I never really felt rich. But um, I grew up on a small estate, a tasteful little home, you see, with a bit of yard, but not much. The Holmes family weren't far down the road and we were the only children around so…you can understand that."

"Certainly," John nodded as Iris finished off the last two bites of delicious, yet entirely unfilling meal.

"I'll bypass our younger years, but we were great friends." She avoided looking over at Sherlock. If she had, she would have seen him not looking at her for once, but down at the lone grain of rice on his plate. How he hated the use of the world friends, especially after his drug induced muck up a few weeks prior. "Um…when I was fourteen, my mum passed away."

"Oh I'm sorry," John said automatically.

Sherlock knew the basics of condolences when people died, however this was sixteen years ago, why was he apologizing? What did he have to feel sorry about? He knew not Iris, nor Meredith Felton. He held his tongue about it however, as Iris pushed on.

"It wasn't sudden, so we were as prepared as anyone could be. Of course, losing my mother young was…hard. Which is why my father wanted to leave England. Everywhere reminded him of her, so we left and went to Wales. I've lived there ever since and I had no intentions of coming back to London but my father suggested it before he…Anyway, I knew no one else, not even from primary school, and Sherlock was the only person I could think of. Thank God you write that blog of yours, it made things ten times easier to find…here," she finished, stumbling over words she wanted to say, but didn't.

John smiled slightly, skipping over the father part in the middle. "Well, I'm glad I could be of assistance."

"I just didn't want to come to London without knowing anyone," Iris confessed. "A bit silly of me, I'm sure. It's more difficult than I thought to move from one place with so many acquaintances to a place familiar yet foreign. I miss Cardiff and my friends. And my house, for that matter. The hotel I'm in is rather ghastly."

Sherlock leaned forward slightly. "I'm sorry, but why do you miss your so called friends? It's not as if they've all died, is it? They're still there, you can visit if you put an effort in it."

There it was, that spark that made gears grind and anger bubble. Iris looked at him across the table like he was completely unbelievable. "Sherlock, have you _completely _forgotten what it's like to be human?" she asked, looking him dead in the eye. John felt like he was in the middle of an old western duel.

"I just don't see the point of worrying over something that isn't important," Sherlock replied, voice level.

Her ears went pink. "What the hell happened to you? Do you not remember anything before you started getting weird? At my mum's funeral, don't you remember? We were up sitting in that tree and I—"

"Stop," Sherlock's voice cut through like a knife as he stood forcefully, pushing back the seat an inch. His eyes held conflict as he snatched the plates from both of their grips and walked to the kitchen.

Iris watched him, fury fizzling to aggravation and a tinge of sadness.

John shifted next to her. "Maybe this wasn't the best idea."

She didn't seem to hear him at first, but then the words clicked and she looked over at him. He wasn't anything out of the ordinary looks wise, however there had to be something there that made Sherlock keep him around. He certainly didn't seem to be the best with people, so Iris could only imagine the patience that the doctor had. "No, no it's me. I'm…expecting too much of him, it seems. He's not the same person I remember."

John glanced into the kitchen, where Sherlock was actually washing the plates. He almost had to do a double take. Sherlock…washing plates? Who was this woman and what had she said to make Sherlock act so out of character? The man who wouldn't make his own tea or food, washing dishes? "Uh…" he looked over at Iris, who was biting down on her bottom lip, looking at him for some sort of advice. "People change. I suppose Sherlock changed a great deal but, I've gotten through to him from time to time, maybe you can?"

Iris let out deep breath and smoothed her hands over her skirt. "I'm going to end up yelling at him," she mused softly. "I have quite the temper."

John tried to give her an encouraging look, watched her stand and decided it would be best if he was out of the way. Up in his room, typing, surfing…he wouldn't interfere, nor eavesdrop. He would be a normal roommate and read Sherlock's mood after Iris left, which he knew would happen. He didn't need to spend hours with the two of them to figure out they were the epitome of oil and water and he wondered how in the world they were ever friends.

Iris walked up behind Sherlock…well, beside him, since there was little room between kitchen table and sink. "You do remember," she stated, getting a full view of his profile, dark curls bouncing as he scrubbed the plates like they were contaminated.

He didn't reply, turned on the water and rinsed the poor plates he had more than adequately cleaned.

"Why don't you ever say anything that isn't so horrid and cold?" Iris crossed her arms. "I came here hoping to find something familiar to make my transition easier. I didn't think Sherlock bloody Holmes would have turned into such a…wanker!"

"Wanker?" Sherlock turned to give her a patronizing look. "Oh you can do better than that."

Iris clenched her teeth. "You are bloody _horrid. _I should have realized that you would be like this. You had already started going that way before I left."

"Which way would that be, exactly?" Sherlock shot back, actual emotion in his voice more than excitement over a new murder or annoyance at his brother. Something else, rooted in anger but not quite. "I wasn't a child any longer, there was no reason for me to continue acting like one."

"That's not what I mean!" Iris's voice had risen, and her face was beginning to get flushed. They were standing no more than thirty centimeters apart, matched in height and this was more of a confrontation than either party as expected from tonight's events. "You…it's like you completely shut off your emotions! You barely seem human anymore."

"Emotions make you weak. They're a trick of the mind, falsities to rely on when reality isn't going as planned," Sherlock replied, believing every word. He had lived years knowing that emotions and caring were weaknesses. Just look what it had done to The Woman; she had been a rather magnificent specimen before love got involved.

Iris scoffed, not believing her ears. "Are you fucking serious? You sound like a bloody psychopath!"

"I am…not a psychopath." He was offended that she would think so. There was a fine line between psychopath and sociopath, and he was the latter, not the former.

"What? Did this happen because of my mum? You were fine until she died, Sherlock. _I_remember. You acted like yourself, a normal…ish, human." Iris was trying her hardest to calm herself and think rationally, but it was easier thought than accomplished. "Had…had anyone ever died before, that you knew?"

Sherlock remembered that time of his life perfectly. And Iris…it was almost frightening that she mentioned that. To be honest, Sherlock hadn't ever been face to face with death before Meredith Felton had passed. His grandparents were either dead or in another country and so he didn't know them. Both his parents and his brother were alive. He never had pets, he never befriended stray and injured animals…he knew death happened, but he never had someone he had known die before. Maybe, just maybe that was enough of a push to make him realize the truth of the world and how feelings did nothing but harm.

"Sherlock." Iris found herself confronted with a rather quiet man, which was unexpected. She wanted to continue this…fight or whatever it was. She was learning more about him in these past few minutes than she would have if she had tried to get to know him the old fashioned way. "Sherlock, at my mother's funeral, after the casket went into the ground…do you remember what you did?"

There was a small precession of people at the funeral of Mrs. Felton. The Holmes's were there, family, friends…to say goodbye to the woman who died too young from myeloid leukemia and left behind a widow and teenaged daughter. Mr. Felton was strong until the end, tears falling only when he tossed a handful of dirt over the polished casket. Iris…wasn't as strong. She had started crying the moment she laid eyes on the box. She was fourteen and she hadn't ever lost anyone close to her before. Sherlock had always scolded her for crying in the past, but this time he let her, because he was sad too. He grasped the definition of death; he had seen Iris's mother grow steadily weaker, but he wondered how odd it would be to not have her be around anymore. It was…close to unfathomable to his sixteen year old self. After the casket was lowered and everyone was standing, Sherlock had decided enough was enough. It was all too sad and claustrophobic with all the black and the crying and the condolences. He had taken Iris by the hand and pulled her away from it all, and gone running. He headed nowhere in particular, just away.

"Yes," Sherlock replied after a few moments, eyes steadily meeting hers.

"Is that what happened? Is that why…is that why you didn't help me?" Iris asked. Her anger was gone. There were glistening tears in the corners of her eyes.

They had run until they reached the very end of the cemetery, a wrought iron fence halting them. The oldest, crumbly and thin gravestones stood back here. There was a tree, rooted near the fence, a stout, short thing, with a perfectly thick branch for two teenagers to sit. And they had. He had gone up with ease—he had his height then too—and then pulled her up after. They didn't say anything, just sat and looked down at all the graves of people long gone, people probably forgotten. Iris had stopped crying finally, and began reading the names that she could see from her perch. Sherlock kept thinking of going to Iris's house and not having her mother be there. He watched Iris, face red from crying, hair going everywhere because Mrs. Felton wasn't there to help her tame it, and he wondered why emotions were such a good thing if they made one so miserable. He felt close to Iris, closer than to Mycroft that was for certain, and it wasn't right to see her so upset. He didn't want to see her upset, because it made him upset and he didn't like the feeling in his chest, all tight and suffocating…no, he didn't want to feel like that. He didn't want to ever find himself crying so over the grave of his own mother.

Perhaps…perhaps it had began before then, but it was certainly a turning point for Sherlock in his changing from childhood naivety to learning that emotions just bogged one down. They didn't help. That's why he did what he did next.

Iris had begun repeating names, and Sherlock wanted to tell her to stop, but she did so on her own and started swinging her skinny legs, clad in black tights. He was sure that people had started looking for them by now, but he didn't mention it. It was one of the very few times in his life when he was silent for so long. And he continued not to speak, the entire day after…Iris gripped the tree bark with her hands and leaned forward, testing gravity, to see the shadows on the tough grass beneath the tree. She didn't plan on going too far, but somehow the lightest of breezes was enough to tip her forward just enough that her heart thudded as she lost contact with the branch. And Sherlock…he could have sprang forward and grabbed her arm or hand and stopped her, but he didn't. He watched as she tumbled from the branch, seven feet onto hard ground. It probably wouldn't have done much damage, only she landed awkwardly on her left arm and it snapped painfully with her weight. She let out a cry of pain and it was enough to have Mycroft arrive on scene: his brother, sitting on a tree branch, looking quizzically down on Iris, who was sprawled out on the ground, tears coming down her round little face.

"Why does it matter?" Sherlock asked, not concerned by the glossiness of Iris's eyes.

"It matters! It matters," she tried again, in a softer tone, blinking away the tears, "because I'm trying to figure out how you changed, Sherlock. How the hell you went from my best friend to…this. I thought I would be coming back to London to find something familiar, but instead, I get…you."

He probably should have been insulted, but this was Sherlock Holmes. "I find familiar very boring. Change is much more applicable."

"Familiar…are you saying that I'm boring?" Iris asked insulted, as she should be.

"This entire conversation has been a waste of time," he said simply, honestly.

Iris swallowed and nodded. "Okay then. I am very sorry that I have once again, wasted your precious time trying to understand you, Sherlock." She spat out his name and marched over to the corner of the stairs to grab her coat and left without another word.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the characters or the places unique to the Sherlock fandom. I do own any original characters or case ideas that come up within this writing.  
><strong>Title: <strong>The Blood-Red Iris  
><strong>Author: <strong>A Tail For Lemonade  
><strong>Rating: <strong>T for safety  
><strong>Chapters: <strong>4/6  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Sherlock Holmes might have just found his match in one Miss. Felton. And by match, he means opposite. And by opposite, he means the most infuriating woman he's met in his life.  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>There is an original character involved here. Don't make the assumption that it'll make this story bad, because I don't think so.  
><strong>AN: **And the longest chapter. I think. The last one might be as long as this one, I'm not sure yet.

88

Chapter Four

One week and four days passed. Iris began sleeping well and had found a rather perfect sounding flat that she was meant to check on the next day. As usual, she was drowning in her work, going over stem cells and DNA strands; both for separate experiments. It was quiet here, on the research end of the hospital, the base floor, along with the morgue and locker rooms and showers. She liked being in the belly of St. Bart's. There were fewer people to worry about, and more time to concentrate.

Her phone vibrated in her labcoat pocket, but she ignored it, thinking it was a text, but it continued and then added her ringtone jingle so she was forced to pluck it out and answer without looking at the caller ID.

"Yes?" she answered, tilting her head and holding the phone between shoulder and cheek.

"Uh…Iris, it's John. John Watson," the voice came through the phone.

Of course it was. She straightened, taking the phone in hand. John had apologized to her for the mucked up dinner the day following, but they hadn't been in contact since. Iris would be lying if she said she wasn't thinking of the two of them…it was easy for unanswered, nagging questions to slip into one's conscious when they weren't paying attention. Like, how exactly were John and Sherlock friends? And what exactly did John do besides helping out Sherlock on his wild cases?

"Oh, hello," she replied, thankful no one else was in the lab. Glancing at the clock above the door, she realized it was lunch time. It was only then that she noticed the grumbling of her stomach. "I don't mean to sound rude but…why are you calling?"

"Oh, of course," John almost stammered. Iris could almost picture him pacing in a small circle, rubbing the back of his neck. And she surprised herself by thinking anything of him in the first place. "You would be a saint if you don't hate me after I tell you what I'm about to ask."

Iris groaned inwardly. She already knew it had something to do with a certain detective. "What is it?"

"Sherlock…but I'm sure you know that already. Uh well…to be honest, I'm on a small holiday with my girlfriend for the weekend. We just got here and Sherlock's texted me. I can't make head or tails of what he's talking about. Talking about spinning rooms and hellfire. I…I think he's off his rocker. Legitimately," he added for emphasis.

"Is that so?" Iris turned on the stool and rested her free arm on the worktable.

"I'm worried about him. For his sanity, mostly," John continued. "Would you…would you please just go to check on him and make sure he hasn't gotten himself into a big mess?"

Iris weighed the consequences and then chided herself for thinking so foolishly. She was an adult, and so was Sherlock, there was no need to fuss exceedingly. Dropping her forehead to her hand, she sucked in a deep breath and nodded. "Of course. I'll check in after work, I promise," she replied.

John sighed with relief. "Thank you. Honestly, thank _you_. I would phone Mrs. Hudson but if he's up to something really awful I don't want to get the poor woman involved. You can get a key from her, she should be in the cafe."

Iris smiled slightly at his appreciative tone. "It's not a problem, John. I'll call you later to let you in on what he's up to."

With one final thank you, John hung up and Iris slipped the phone back into its pocket and stood. Running a hand over her hair, she disposed of the slides she had just finished with and left the room to scavenge for something halfway decent to eat from the buildings vending machines down the hall.

88

"Sherlock?" Iris called wearily as she walked up the creaky stairs. A crinkly bang was looped on her arm. Leaving the lab at five, as usual, she had contemplated grabbing a bite before going to Baker Street, but then again, John had seemed so concerned for Sherlock that it had already been long enough since she had agreed to check in on him. So, before going to 221A, she had stopped by a little shop and bought a few things to eat. Two cups of instant noodles and her favorite biscuits, because she didn't plan on staying that long, if at all.

"Sherlock, are you alive up there?" she called out again just as she came to the top of the stairs. Both doors were closed, the stairs up to what she guessed was John's room were bare and only a coat rack sat in the corner. She didn't bother taking off her jacket, unsure of what she was going to walk into.

Sucking in a breath, she knocked on the door that led to the sitting room, and got no answer. A spike of worry flashed through her body like a jolt and she turned the knob and pulled the door back, looking inside. Sherlock wasn't pacing, or sitting at the desk. He could be in the kitchen but…no, he wasn't. Her eyes fell upon the shape of a tall, thin man wearing a blue robe curled up on a couch that wasn't even long enough for John to stretch out on.

"Sherlock?" she said, quieter this time, walking inside and putting down the bag on the table. "Are you alright?" She leaned over and put a hand on his shoulder.

It seemed to wake him and he rolled over onto his back rather comically, eyes squinting in the dim light. "Your hair is like fire," were the very unexpected words that came out in an even deeper tone than usual thanks to just having woken.

Iris furrowed her eyebrows and tried not to laugh as she looked down at him in the last rays of setting sun that could force itself around buildings. She reached for the lamp on the table next to the couch and turned it on, yellow light flooding the small space, including Sherlock's face. He closed his eyes tightly at the onslaught of light. "Oh, Sherlock," Iris sighed, noting the color in his face. Color that would be normal for someone else, but not for him. Reaching a hand forward, she pressed her palm against his forehead, which caused him to open his eyes.

"What are you doing?" he asked, though he made no move to stop her.

"You've got a fever," she replied, hand instantly hot when she touched him.

"What are you doing here?"

Standing, Iris pulled off her coat and set it over the back of the armchair in front of the mantle. Sherlock coughed behind her, she nodded to herself in the mirror before turning. "Alright, c'mon." Leaning over him once again, she took his elbows and forced him to sit.

"What are you doing here?" he repeated.

"John was worried and asked me to check in on you. Now come on, we've got to get you cooled off," Iris replied, all business. "Stand up for me, will you?"

Sherlock stood, swaying a bit since his legs didn't seem to be as cooperating as usual. Iris put an arm around him and pulled his across her shoulders. "Why are you helping me?"

Iris looked at him and swallowed. They were closer than they had before, even during their…argument in the kitchen. "I'm not heartless, Sherlock Holmes," was her reply as she started to walk.

"I've been told I am," he said with a sigh.

"Quite right," she muttered, spotting the kitchen switch and flooding the room with fluorescents. "Bathroom?"

Sherlock motioned forward at the tiny hallway. "You can leave, I'll survive," he said as he pushed open the door on the right and she felt around for the lightswitch.

"I don't think you will," she said, pulling him into the small room with her. "I think you'd be likely to just lie on the couch and let your brain boil."

Sherlock smirked ever so slightly as she found washcloths. "See, you do detest me."

"Excuse me?" Iris stood and faced him.

"Your tone…you seem to like the idea of my brain boiling, Miss. Felton."

"Shut up," Iris instructed, tossing the cloth into the sink and stepping toward him, hands slipping underneath the robe at his shoulders. "Clothes off." She pushed off his robe and rolled it up, tossing it in the corner. "Am I going to have to do this for you?"

Sherlock let out a breath. "I am…exceedingly exhausted. Lifting my arms takes effort," he replied, before coughing into his elbow.

Iris nodded. "That's what being sick does, you nitwit," she said, going at the buttons of his shirt.

"I felt fine this morning. But that didn't last. Before long I was dizzy and swirling and laying on the couch."

"Texting John about spinning rooms and hellfire," Iris put in, pulling off his shirt and adding it to the pile.

"Did he say that?"

She nodded, hesitating for a short moment before unbuttoning his trousers—thank god he was wearing pants—and moving him to sit on the toilet seat so she could pull them off and again, toss them into a corner. "You've just been simmering over there on the couch. Have you been there all afternoon?" she asked, walking to the sink and turning on the tap, letting it run over her fingers so she could feel the temperature.

"Yes. What else should I have done? I called for John, but he'd left," Sherlock confessed, sounding almost like a child whose friend had to go home during a sleepover.

Once the water ran cold, she soaked the washcloth. "Yes he had. You should have…called someone."

"Like you, perhaps?" He tilted his head up to her—the first time he'd done that—as she stood before him and placed the icy cloth on his forehead, half covering his eyes. "I wouldn't have."

"Because I'm familiar and boring?" she asked, squeezing the towel so the water dripped down his face.

He sputtered for a moment before lifting an arm and pushing hers away. "Must you do that? It doesn't seem professional."

Iris shook her head in disbelief. "I am not a professional caretaker, Sherlock," she told him, going back to the sink to refresh. She wrung it a bit more this time and held the cloth against the back of his neck. "Hold this. I'll be right back."

He did as he was told and she walked from the room. Grabbing her bag of food off the table, she tossed it into the chair where her jacket was and then, feeling like a child about to curse in her grandmother's house, she slipped off her shoes. Her feet were aching from being in them all day, and she was doing no impressing here with the feverish Sherlock. Pulling her phone from her jacket, she dialed John.

"You were right to call me," she answered. "Sherlock's got a fever, cough, headaches too, I'm guessing, and I don't know what else. Sounds like the flu or a bug."

"Is it really?" John sounded worried. "Of all weekends to leave…"

Iris rolled her eyes. "Are you serious, John? Sherlock isn't your child. And I _am_ a scientist you know, I can take care of one sick person. I just wanted to tell you how he was."

"I appreciate it."

"Oh right. I was wondering if you had a plastic bin, a small one I could fill with ice? And aspirin, is it in the medicine chest?"

Getting answers to her questions, she grabbed a small square bin from under the sink, was thankful there was ice to half-fill it with, and walked back to the bathroom. "Doing alright there?" she asked, managing to shove a corner of the bin under the small spout and fill it with luke-warm water to mix with the ice and not put him into shock. Placing it on the floor, she grabbed the washcloth from him and pointed. "Feet in now," she instructed.

Sherlock looked pointedly at the floating ice and then at Iris with an 'I-am-not-putting-my-feet-in-there' expression.

Iris raised an eyebrow in challenge and put her hands on her hips. "If you don't get your bloody feet in there in the next three seconds I'm going to tickle the hell out of you," she threatened, knowing fully well that being tickled was at the top of Sherlock's least-favorite-things list. Time didn't change that.

Sherlock matched her raised eyebrow and hissed slightly putting his feet into the chilly water. Iris once again doused the washcloth and slapped it against Sherlock's forehead, telling him to hold it there. While he was enjoying the cool waves sweeping through him, Iris fished through the medicine chest, finding the bottle of aspirin along with a thermometer, amid a very limited selection of personal hygiene products.

Moving next to Sherlock, she took the washcloth from him and tossed it on the sink. "I have to take your temperature. Open your mouth," Iris instructed.

Sherlock looked at the thermometer and shook his head. "Shouldn't you clean it first?"

Iris chuckled. "It's been in your medicine cabinet, Sherlock. It's fine." Without waiting for approval, she grabbed his chin and shoved it under his tongue. "Who's being childish now?"

He just looked at her as if she were the devil. She had been through worse, especially from Sherlock. After thirty seconds, she removed the thermometer and bit down on her bottom lip as she read it. "Thirty-nine," she said with a sigh. "I'm almost certain it felt up to forty-one when I got here." She tossed the thermometer into the sink; she would clean things up later.

"Can I take my feet out now? I believe I'm turning into a dried fruit," Sherlock mentioned, staring down at the bin, the ice all melted.

"Yes," Iris replied, grabbing a small towel from the cabinet behind the door and tossing it at him. "Don't you dare put your clothes back on either. You're going to bed."

Sherlock dried his feet and stood, swaying a bit as his head throbbed. He reached out for something to stop himself from tipping sideways, and his hand landed on Iris's shoulder. His head cleared, however he could still hear the blood rushing through his ears and he tried not to wince. Sherlock hadn't ever been dramatically sick during his lifetime, and this was the first time he had been this sick in ten years. He hated being off his game, but somehow Iris softened that feeling…feeling? He would have shaken his head if he didn't think it would make him crumple to the floor.

Iris helped him the five steps to his bed and set him on the edge, pulling off the blanket and leaving him with only the sheet. She forced him to sit upright as she ran into the kitchen, grabbed a mug, filled it with water and dug out two aspirins to give him to help reduce the fever. "Here," she held them out, followed by the mug. "And drink all of it. If you don't stay hydrated, you'll get worse and I'll have to take you to the hospital."

Sherlock made a face at the thought of going to the hospital for anything other than seeing a corpse, and downed the mug in a few gulps before laying back and curling his sheet around him. "Do you really think this will work?"

"Being chilly is better than boiling." Iris held the mug firmly between her hands and looked down at him. Who would have thought that she would be stuck with the job of nursing the great Sherlock Holmes back to health? Iris had seen the papers and read John's blog enough in the past week to know that Sherlock was getting…noticed, famous even. She highly doubted that he enjoyed it one bit.

Taking a step to leave the room, Sherlock spoke. "Are you leaving?"

"Just going to the kitchen. I'm going to make some dinner for myself. Um…I can stay the night if you don't mind," she suggested, thinking of the long taxi ride from here back to her hotel. It was atrocious.

"Stay," Sherlock said rather loudly. "I'm bound to let myself go if I'm left alone."

Iris smiled ever so slightly as he admitted he needed help, roundabout way or not, she felt a bit smug. "Whatever you say. I'll leave water next to you. Drink as much as you can." After filling the mug again and putting it on his bedside table, Iris closed his door so that the smell of food wouldn't be as potent. She wasn't sure what he was sick with in the first place, so she had no idea if he would end up vomiting anytime soon. She crinkled her nose at the thought as she put the kettle on the stove to heat water for her noodles.

88

She ate until she was full and then went to check on Sherlock. He had drank the mug, and appeared to be sleeping, so she went to give it a quick wash—the less germs the better—and fill and brought it back in. To be honest, he reminded her of his younger self at the moment. A bit vulnerable, but still Sherlock. If she looked hard enough, she could still find traces of how he used to be in there; but she just had to make an effort and quit waiting for John to close the gap between them.

Sighing, she was about to go back into the main part of the flat and clean things up a bit and maybe watch some telly when Sherlock shifted onto his back and spoke. "Would you…mind?"

Iris raised an eyebrow and looked down at him. "Mind…?"

"Staying. Next to me, I mean." He blinked. "I can't sleep honestly. I'd rather talk to someone I know is here than the shadows on the wall."

"It's not like I'm doing anything else," Iris responded, moving to sit on the edge near the foot of the mattress. "What exactly do you want to talk about, Mr. Holmes?"

The light from the kitchen fell into the room through the half-opened door, falling almost entirely on Iris. Sherlock's mind was a bit too heated to make any deductions about her appearance or why she came here after they continued to butt heads every time they saw each other. "I know you really want to talk about our…childhood friendship," he pointed out, folding his hands over his chest and being sure not to kick her as he moved his legs.

Iris raised her eyebrows. "Reminisce, you mean? That's what us normal people do." She locked her fingers over her knee and leaned back a bit. "Do you remember when we first met properly? You were wearing that awful bandana and kept poking me with that little wooden saber. You wanted me to play the kidnapped princess. I refused."

"Yes, before you took it and hit me over the head with it." He crinkled his nose. "I never thought a six year old could hit so hard."

Iris grinned. "Do you remember that time when your father bought that half-finished sailboat?"

He laughed; really, really laughed. Iris hadn't heart him laugh before. He had never been one to laugh when he was a kid. It was a surprisingly pleasant laugh, warm for a man who appeared so cold and aloof. She laughed as well, the memory showing up like a film before her eyes.

"We had taken it over from the British Royal Navy and stashed our loot under the decks and you were trying to figure out how to get your pirate flag up on the mast."

"I was twelve and a pirate, I wasn't the brightest," Sherlock put in.

Iris rolled her eyes and continued. "We finally managed to get it near the top when Mycroft had to come and spoil it all. He dragged us inside and ruined all the fun."

Sherlock grinned one of his half-smiles. "He was furious. I thought his head might explode to be honest."

"And…after your mother let us off, you ran him out of the house with your sword, yelling about how you'd disembowel him in his sleep," Iris snickered.

"No, I believe you were the one who was threatening him."

Iris shrugged. "I suppose that would make more sense. I never really enjoyed your brother when he was around."

"No one does. How he was ever married, I have no idea."

"Mycroft…was married?" Iris tilted her head and nodded. "I suppose I could see it. She must have be a complete cold-hearted bitch to deal with that one. You know…when I was younger, I swore to the world that I would marry you one day."

Sherlock looked at her then, really, probably for the first time since she had arrived in London. Even through his muddy mind, he could see her clearly smiling softly at her—their—childhood, and he felt that perhaps he was doing something properly for once, when it came to human interaction. John would be proud. "You wanted to marry a pirate?"

"No…I…nevermind." Shaking her head, she stood so she could press her hand against his forehead. "Let me check your temp. You can only have the aspirin every eight hours, it should have kicked in by now."

She disappeared and came back with the thermometer. It read 38 Celsius. It had gone down a tiny bit. "You really have to sleep you know," she told him in almost a scolding tone. "The more sleep, the faster you'll get better." She hoped. She was praying this was something she wouldn't have to get him antibiotics for. Not that it was a problem; she could just go down to a pharmacy and get them herself, but she wasn't a _doctor_; she focused on genetic disorders, not patients.

Sherlock just nodded, sinking down a bit into the lone sheet he was allowed. He found himself far too exhausted to put up a fuss and even his mind was muddled enough for him to not even be able to come up with a proper response. He closed his eyes and listened to her footsteps leave and then return. She placed a mug on his bedside table.

"Don't forget to drink. It'll help more than anything," she told him, knowing fully well he wasn't asleep yet. She left, pulling the door closed behind her to keep out the light. Walking to the kitchen, she let out a breath and ran a hand over her hair.

What was she doing here? Well, she knew what she was doing here, but _what_? She had come back to London because her father said she should.

What had been the first thing to come to mind? Finding a job to pay for the enormously expensive flats they had. Not that she needed it, being rich and all, but she hated not to pay her own way.

Why had she looked up Sherlock? Her father had suggested it. He remembered the "Holmes boy you were so close with" and he had wanted her to try to find someone she knew so she wouldn't feel so lost in the city. He had been preparing her for months. This time was different though: she was an orphan after her father's death. Her mother had died and she still had her father. This time, she would have no one. He had been trying to make sure she wasn't alone.

It had only been two weeks after he mentioned it that the disease took him. He wasn't buried next to his wife, he was cremated and placed in his family's mausoleum in Swansea. He had been so kind as to try to find her someone to be there for her. He had picked Sherlock Holmes out of nothing and look where it had left her.

She did nothing but argue with the man, but that was due to the fact that the change in him baffled her. She could barely recognize him, and yet she didn't stop coming around. Why? Well, because of their past, such as the few memories they had just been talking about. He was still in there, somewhere, and she didn't think she could go back to Wales, or move to the north. No, she had to stay in London. She had a good job, she hadn't made any friends since being here, but then again, she tended to speak her mind openly and sometimes they took her for being rude, but she was just a very passionate person was all.

Maybe that was the point. Maybe she was too passionate. Lord knows her father always told her to tone down her language when they were around those posh folk. She couldn't help but just assume that Sherlock was going to be like he was before. He was the only friend—there really was no other way to think of him in her mind, even if the word didn't suit—she had in this city, and she was going to have to get over it and look at him, not through the filter of his younger self, but as he was now. She had to separate the two, because clearly, sixteen years did a lot to change someone.

And that led her to wondering what to do now that he was closed off in his room. She would check on him every hour, fill up his glass, make sure his temperature didn't rise to any ghastly degree, and fish around his cabinets for something to eat other than bowls of noodles. She highly doubted she would find much of anything considering two men lived here, but it was worth a shot. And she might as well turn on the telly and see if there was anything worth watching on. Turning on more lights in the sitting room, she turned off the bright kitchen overheads and settled into the chair opposite the television. She could check for food later.

88

Iris woke up with a kink in her neck, thanks to the tiny coach she had ended up falling into exhaustion on. She could have called John and asked to use his room, but it was late and he was on holiday, so there was no use. She didn't get much sleep, rustling about the place, fiddling with just about everything and checking in on Sherlock, filling up his mug whenever he drained it and feeding him aspirin when the eight hours came up. She woke with a start at nine o'clock—something screeched outside, and she nearly fell onto the floor—and winced as she moved her neck. She had been watching Alan Carr when she dozed off and managed to work in maybe five choppy hours of sleep. Sitting, she tried to massage her neck and moved it gingerly, biting down on her bottom lip. Her shirt was half untucked and her skirt had managed to wiggle all the way around, with the back now in the front and the zipper on the wrong side. Sighing, she fixed herself in the bathroom before checking in on Sherlock.

"Still alive in here?" she asked, eyes on the ball of sheet that was a consulting detective.

He mumbled something into his pillow that sounded like "Mmmumphehh" and rolled over, hand clasped over his eyes. "Barely," he muttered, coughing half-heartedly.

Iris looked down him almost pityingly. "Why don't you get up? You can lounge around the house, watch telly…or something," she suggested, watching him struggle to sit up due to the level of twisted the sheet was around him.

"Where are you going?" he asked, finally managing to swing his legs over the side of the bed.

Iris blinked. "Um…I've got an appointment," she replied vaguely, moving forward to check his forehead with her palm.

"What for?" he asked, looking up at her, eyes sharp despite his mind-muddled state.

"I'm checking a flat," she replied, dropping her hand. "I think your fever went down a bit."

"Where is it?" Sherlock stood up, sheet wrapped around him like a toga.

"I…I've forgotten." She started walking out into the kitchen, talking over her shoulder. "You can take some more aspirin at nine-thirty. I'll be gone by then. Appointment at ten and I've got to change my clothes."

Sherlock followed, noticing right away that things were out of place around the kitchen.

"You shouldn't get dressed. It's not all that cold in here, you should be fine," she continued, opening every cabinet in the room. She hadn't done that last night; she had preferred telly over searching for food. "And um…drink lots of water. If you dehydrate, I'll have to take you to hospital."

He leaned against the fridge and watched her as she found some bread. "That won't be necessary."

"Good," she muttered. "You should really eat something too. Even if you're not hungry."

"You're a lot like your mother," he said suddenly, causing her to freeze. She was still for a few long seconds before slowly putting down the plate she was holding. "Mind you, I didn't pay much attention to anything when I was younger but I remember her well enough."

"Oh yeah?" Her voice was small, and she turned slowly around. He looked almost like she remembered; less cold-hearted detective and more thirteen year old pirate-hearted boy. Hair a mess, not dressed in the proper manner…just substitute the sheet for nearly-authentic pirate outfit and there it was.

"Mmmm, yes. Taking care of people, warm, kind, all those things I have little experience with."

Iris swallowed. "I think being ill has really gotten to you," she managed to get out. "I'll make some toast, then I've got to go."

Ten minutes later, she left him with a plate of toast in front of the telly, reminding him to drink water and when to take more aspirin. She left quickly, pulling on shoes and jacket as she left the room, pulling the door shut behind her. She had just enough time to get to her hotel, change into something more appropriate and less stale smelling before meeting with the landlady of the flat she was looking to get. It was close to St. Bart's, cost was respectable and that was enough for her. She only hoped it wasn't a mess.

The cab pulled up to the address at exactly ten o'clock. Iris paid and stepped out. She walked up to the door and knocked, immediately welcomed by a forty-five year old woman with frosted hair and warm smile. Talking with a normal human being was a great relief after a night of rambling Sherlock.

The flat was on the second floor, with quiet neighbors. It was a small thing, a sort of joined kitchen/dining room/sitting room, a single bed and bath. The coloring wasn't awful, there were three windows in the main room and one large one in the bedroom. Enough space for all of her things, including her bookshelf—which was sitting in a storage room at the moment with most of her things—that she could fit in the space opposite the door. It was perfect.

It came with a bed and a couch. She could move in by the middle of the week. Leaving the building at almost a skip, she actually walked a bit on foot, taking in the crisp air and grinning at random strangers. They probably thought she was loony, but she really didn't care. She looked at the city in a new light. It wasn't so bad. It wasn't all gloomy weather and murders and there was no need for her to down a bottle of pinot grigio regularly alone in her hotel room. No, things would get better, things would look up.

Entirely forgetting everything to do with Sherlock Holmes in those moments, she spotted a cafe in the corner and decided to stop in for a celebratory drink. That drink turned into a nice chat with the bartender and a big lunch of fish and chips. Which then turned into meeting a fellow habitant of the street, the building next to hers, and the woman—Sarah was her name—decided to take Iris on a tour of the area, showing her the best and worst. Iris didn't say no. At that moment she did think of Sherlock, but surely he could survive on his own. If he took his aspirin and drank enough. She didn't think he wouldn't, so she decided to go along with Sarah and have quite an inspiring day.

It was three o'clock by the time she used the spare key to open the door at 221B. She took her shoes—the black ones—off the moment she stepped inside, giving a sigh of relief, having been walking in them all day.

"Sherlock?" she called out, for the sake of it. She hopped up the stairs and pushed open the door to the living room.

He was still sitting where she'd left him: wrapped in a sheet, curled up like a cat on the chair in front of the telly. He didn't look up when she came in, instead deciding to exclaim something obvious at the characters on the show—who had done it, since apparently it was a mystery series—just before the screen went black and credits began rolling. He shut off the device.

"Felling better?" she asked, comfortably tossing her shoes near the couch and pulling off her jacket.

"Slightly," he replied, looking over at her.

"Did you eat?"

"Yes."

"Water?"

"Nine-point-six liters."

She raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yes."

"Okay then." She moved to sit opposite him. "Anything good on telly?"

He gave her a look that made her clear her throat and look anywhere but at him. "How was the flat?"

"Oh! It was fantastic. I finally feel like I've actually moved here instead of just paying a visit," she replied, smiling brightly. "I can move in by the middle of the week."

"Good."

"Yes," she nodded, resting her hands on her knees. She settled back in the chair, slipping her hands under her thighs. "I would have been back earlier but I figured you'd be alright by yourself."

"I am still alive."

"Yeah, I…you don't care," she stopped herself.

Sherlock shrugged. "I've been watching the most idiotic shows for hours. Your day will sound fascinating."

Not altogether sure if it was an insult or not, she decided not to dwell on it and just continued. "Um…stopped for a celebratory drink. Ended up befriending a neighbor and she showed me around the area. My feet just about fell off."

He actually glanced down at her stocking'd feet. "An exaggeration I'd say."

She rolled her eyes. "Obviously. I had sort of forgotten that London was an actual place with people. Since I've got here I've just been by myself or surrounded by idiots at St. Bart's."

The corner of his lips quirked upwards. "A solitary life has its advantages."

She nodded softly, slumping back and taking in a deep breath. "Do you have a smoke?"

"What?" He looked at her quizzically.

"A cigarette…you have one? Come on, I know Mycroft basically force fed them to you. I quit but I want a celebratory one."

"I haven't got any," he replied. "Tossed them."

"Why?" She looked at him as if he had grown two heads. She just wanted a cigarette, that's all. To get over the fact that she just realized exactly why she had been so angry and irritable and staying away from strangers since she'd been here.

"I got a case. Didn't have a need for them any longer." He noticed—mind being relatively clear at the moment—that emotions crossed her face, struggle and panic. She bit her bottom lip and curled her toes and kept wiggling around.

"Damn," she muttered. "Um…would it be weird if I apologized to you right now?"

"What for?" He was never _not_ looking at her, yet her eyes roamed the room as if they were following the flight pattern of a fly. An obvious defense method.

"For being a complete bitch," she sighed. "For getting angry every time we meet. I just…I had this idea in my head of you, and you aren't it."

"It's quite alright. I piss off a lot of people," he brushed off her apology. "You assumed I would be an older version of my younger self. However, you failed to remember that people change. No one is ever the same at fifteen as they are at thirty or sixty or eighty. Maturity, reality, it all changes. It's quite an easy concept."

"Ugh, I know," she mumbled from behind the hands that were now covering her face. "I am so very stupid."

"No."

Iris peered at him through her fingers. He was looking at her with those eyes, such a color that she had never been able to decide if they were blue or green, and he was obviously feeling entirely better than he had been the previous day. Exhausted, Iris let her hands drop. "My dad died," she confessed, looking at him for the first time since she had walked into the room.

"I know." It was a simple statement. There was no sympathy, no apology in his voice.

"Of course you know," she breathed.

"You would never come back to London if it wasn't for something drastic. I know you have no family, no aunts or cousins or grandparents. I believe your father went to Wales so that both of your parents wouldn't die in the same country. Though I can't be sure, I think I've been watching too much TV." He shook his head and got back to point. "With no one left, your father suggested you go someone familiar. You said it yourself. So he died probably asking you to return here so that you wouldn't be alone. It's probable that he suggested looking me up, considering you came straight here from the train and not to your hotel. You were grieving and I was no help. I'm never any help when it comes to that sort of thing. That's more of John's department."

"Sherlock," she said, barely audible. "You're feeling better."

He tilted his head. "Yes."

"He didn't want me to be alone. He was foolish to make me think you hadn't changed."

This time, he actually held his tongue, processing the words he would speak next. This was based on the fact that it was clear she would burst into tears if he said the wrong thing. He wasn't sure what the right thing was though, and texting John at this very moment would be inconsiderate, even for Sherlock. Plus his phone was over on the table and he didn't want to move. "He was…looking after you. As parents do."

Sniffing, Iris blinked rapidly and nodded. "Yes. I suppose so. Still, I shouldn't have gotten angry with you. I didn't realize my expectations and how I was trying to make you into something you're not. I'm sorry."

"It's…fine." A silence hung in the air for elongated seconds before, "Can you make me some more toast?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the characters or the places unique to the Sherlock fandom. I do own any original characters or case ideas that come up within this writing.  
><strong>Title: <strong>The Blood-Red Iris  
><strong>Author: <strong>A Tail For Lemonade  
><strong>Rating: <strong>T for safety  
><strong>Chapters: <strong>5/6  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Sherlock Holmes might have just found his match in one Miss. Felton. And by match, he means opposite. And by opposite, he means the most infuriating woman he's met in his life.  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>There is an original character involved here. Don't make the assumption that it'll make this story bad, because I don't think so.  
><strong>AN: **Don't hate me, but I don't think either of the last two chapters will be as long as chapter 4. I just had so much to get down and so much character development to deal with that it ended up extremely long. I hope that doesn't deter you that 5 and 6 won't be as long. 6 might be closer to that length, but this is yet again, closer to the length of 3. Please, don't hate and review nicely ^-^

88

Chapter Five

It was a Thursday. A rainy, dreary Thursday, and the forth day since she had seen Sherlock Holmes. John had arrived home Sunday night. She had still been at Baker Street, and Sherlock was practically back to normal, though he had taken on an awful cough in exchange for having a normal temperature. John thanked her profusely, and Sherlock hadn't said much of anything so she had left, unsure of if there had actually been any progress between the two of them, or if the sentiment and tolerance of her was just due to Sherlock being ill.

However, Iris was too busy to think much about it in the following days. Research to be cataloged, bosses to meet for personal interviews, as well as moving into her new place. She was stretched thin, and was currently staring into a microscope at a blood sample, but seeing nothing but a blur, as if her eyes couldn't focus. She chided herself and hunched forward, gripping the knobs and attempting to focus the machine, barely hearing the lab door click open and closed.

The person didn't say a thing either, and she just assumed it was one of the two other scientists whom she shared this lab with. However, the deep voice that broke the silence was both unexpected and welcome.

"Busy, are you?" Sherlock Holmes inquired. He was standing on the opposite side of her worktable, peering at the various equipment and paperwork sprawled across the space.

Iris finally allowed her eyes a rest and sat back, looking across the table at him. "A bit," she replied. "But my mind's a bit…" she attempted to explain herself through her hands, but only resulted in getting a slightly confused look. "It's a bit frazzled. I can use a break." She glanced over at the clock and had to take a second look. There was no way that it was already nine in the evening! No wonder her eyes were fighting the microscope.

"Mmm." Sherlock ran a long finger along the edge of the table.

"Wait…what are you doing at St. Bart's in the first place?" Iris inquired, unmasked worry furrowing her brow.

"I was bored," he said with a shrug. "Molly was out, and I can't very well ask that other pathologist if I may please desecrate some corpses to pass the time."

Iris raised an eyebrow. "I'm just going to leave that…there," she muttered, spinning off the seat and standing, instantly regretting it, as her feet throbbed, having been stuffed into her standard black heels for the passed eleven hours. "Um…who is Molly?"

"A pathologist, obviously," Sherlock said, giving her one of his cringe worthy looks that made you feel like you really were as smart as a three year old. "John would expect me to call her a…friend."

"And you don't see it like that?" Iris wasn't trying to pry, really, she had just never expected a woman to be a topic of choice between her and Sherlock.

"I don't have friends," was Sherlock's surefire reply, an echo of what he had told her once before.

"Ah, of course." Iris nodded and watched him carefully as his eyes roamed the white and shining room. "How are you feeling?"

"Ninety-eight percent, I would say," he replied. "John's kept me in the flat. I was about to go mad without fresh air."

"And here you are."

"Yes." He turned to her then. "You mentioned marriage before."

"Did I?" Iris tilted her head and rubbed her sore neck.

"If I recall, you mentioned something about marrying me." He looked her directly in the eye, unwavering.

"As a _kid_!" she exclaimed. "Kids think of these things, even girl pirates like myself. I don't even know why I thought about it, honestly. I had forgotten."

"Yes." His eyes flickered over her, head to toe, taking in her almost never-changing appearance. "You don't have any desire to have a sexual relationship with me."

Iris's eyes grew wide, and she placed her hands on her hips. "Excuse me?" He was right of course, she was just floored that he would say it so outwardly and why he was even thinking of that in the first place.

"It's obvious. All women work on their appearance around those they wish to have sex with. Make-up, usually red toned, and dress the way they believe men will notice them. You…do not do that. You wear the same worn shoes, the same clothes just recycled, make-upless face and no jewelry to draw attention to your finer aspects, not to mention your hair is clearly out of your control. If you truly had any interest in me, you would have made some effort," Sherlock noted.

Iris gaped a bit, her feminine pride slightly bruised as she unconsciously tried patting down her utterly uncontrollable, wiry copper hair. "You sound happy about that," she finally said, crossing her arms.

"It certainly makes our meetings more…comfortable." He nodded at his own choice of words, mentally patting himself on the back.

"Oh," Iris nodded. "And you are right, by the way, in case there was any question about that."

"I know I am." No modesty. Of course not, this was Sherlock Holmes.

Iris watched _him_ carefully this time. He wasn't the only one with a working brain; she could notice things too. "Sherlock," she began, slowly taking a step towards him. He watched her like one would watch a tarantula coming their way. "Have you…ever had someone before?"

"I thought you weren't interested."

"I'm not. I'm just curious."

For some reason, he couldn't block the image of six year old Iris stealing his sword and hitting him with it. There was something in her eyes that looked positively manic. "Curiosity killed the cat, they say."

"Is that a no then?" Iris raised her eyebrows, a rather gleeful smile overcoming her features, causing dimples and lines to appear around her eyes.

"I've always considered it a waste of time that could be spent doing more important things."

"So it is a no!" An unexpected laugh bubbled up and she slapped a hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry. I just…you've at least kissed someone, haven't you?"

Sherlock sighed. It was truly below him to be discussing these sort of matters. "That…is not your business."

"Yes or no. Please? I won't pry anymore, I promise!" she reached forward and clutched at his jacket sleeve.

"Yes." He pulled his arm from her grasp and took a step around her. "I only came to thank you. For taking care of me while I was ill."

She turned and crossed her arms once again. "That's what…people-who-aren't-friends-but-know-each-other do," she replied with a nod, smile still on her face.

Sherlock's mouth twitched into a smile for half a second before he turned to walk out of the lab. "Oh and, you're welcome to come to Baker Street whenever you please," he added, looking around the door at her. "John's gone often, and I've been told I don't notice and talk into space a majority of the time."

"Are you asking me over?" she teased.

"No," he nearly barked. "Just…if you ever feel bored, you may come over."

Iris glanced down at her feet for a moment before replying. "Thanks."

He gave her a nod before disappearing, the door closing softly behind him. Letting out a breath, Iris sat back down in her seat and shook her head. There was absolutely no way that she was going to be able to work any longer tonight. She had spent the morning moving boxes into her new flat, meeting with the electrician to make sure she had cable and net, and then spent the rest of her day hunched over this table. Her back and feet were aching.

Cleaning up her slides and paperwork, she walked to the lockers down the hall to drop off her labcoat and then made her way out the back. She itched for a cigarette, but once again exchanged it for a stick of gum. It was dark, with no moon to light the sky and the cabbie gave her an odd feeling, but she got to her new place within a few minutes and locked herself in the small space. She tossed her shoes at the awkward place where her sofa had ended up and walked to the kitchen to see if she had imagined getting some wine coolers, but alas, they were there, as solid as every messy pile in the room. Ignoring it all, she sat down on the couch, found the remote and tried out the channels.

88

The next four weeks were a mesh of getting settled and trying to stretch out fingertips for friendships. When her father's health had begun to drastically decline, Iris had just about lost contact with all of her friends around Cardiff, which was probably why it was a bit easier for her to move to London, but she was a creature of many and she enjoyed having close relationships.

She spent a number of afternoons actually leaving St. Bart's and joining John Watson for a meal in a restaurant around the corner. They got along quite well, and Iris was struck with the desire to know how someone could possibly stand to live with Sherlock, after she had gotten a taste of what that was like.

Iris indulged him with stories of her childhood with Sherlock, in exchange for John talking of the Sherlock he knew, giving both of them a different look at the complex man. Besides their most comment subject, Iris told him of her work at St. Bart's and John talked about different aspects of the cases he and Sherlock worked than what he wrote on his blog. Iris confessed she had begun reading them from the beginning after moving into her new place.

Once they started getting more comfortable, John mentioned his goings on with his girlfriend—in fact, Iris met Greta one day when she was headed to Baker Street and the two were just leaving—and Iris told him about her mother passing away as a kid and being sent to America for two years afterwards. He told her he had been to Afghanistan, but didn't talk much about it. She told him why she had moved back to London.

It was a strangely comfortable friendship from the get-go. She had liked him from the moment she had met him briefly that first day she stepped foot in 221B. She wondered how many other friends he had that he could talk about his woes and worries about Sherlock with, someone who would understand and see his side of things. She was just glad to have someone, anyone, to talk about her life without complications. It was nice.

Amid her other small group of friends, was Mrs. Hudson. She would often visit the older woman on her way to Sherlock's flat. Iris would be lying if she said she didn't feel a motherly bond there, but it wasn't often Iris found such a nice and kind older woman. The woman would make tea and they'd eat biscuits and Mrs. Hudson would divulge her thoughts on how Sherlock was doing and Iris would nod and chatter and then go upstairs. Which was another thing entirely.

Her time at Sherlock's flat had not been planned. She hadn't taken his offer seriously until one day she was entirely too wound up to sit still at the hospital anymore and headed over. She didn't know if he was home or not, but she just walked on up and found John out and Sherlock playing violin. He had instantly began talking the moment she stepped foot inside and Iris got first hand experience at how he made his deductions with cases. It was quite fascinating really, and she seemed to have a good enough brain to bounce ideas off of.

It became a thing of habit to stop by, and Sherlock even texted her a time or two to ask her to come over when he was working on a decidedly tricky case and John was out or not cooperating to Sherlock's standards. Once she even said something so simple—to her at least, but it was a womanly opinion—that became the deciding factor in tracking down a kidnapper. Sherlock had actually praised her momentarily before leaving with a swish of his coat and off he was to catch a criminal.

They didn't get into anything drastically emotional. No, it was mostly him working through cases that were tricky, or just sorting out something that was bothersome and she just happened to be there. Iris didn't mind actually, and with her knowledge from John about how Sherlock acted, she started to feel like this was just about as close to a friendship as she might get with Sherlock. And she was alright with it, honestly. She was needed from time to time, she got to help him, it was enough, and he wasn't totally against her company.

After her conversation with Sherlock, Iris couldn't resist stopping by the morgue one night she was working late, and she was lucky enough to find the mousy, wholesome Molly Hooper working there. Molly was so sweet and when Iris said that Sherlock had mentioned her, she was rather open to talking to Iris. Iris was sure to tell the pathologist that she wasn't trying to win friends by talking about Sherlock, and Molly said that she had heard of Iris through some fellow colleagues at St. Bart's.

While not entirely focused on Sherlock, Iris listened to Molly ramble on and on about the man, mostly until Iris interrupted her to talk about work or something of the like. Molly seemed to take to Iris quite well, being the only other woman besides Mrs. Hudson who knew Sherlock on as much of a personal level that he would allow. Iris often times wanted to slap Sherlock for how he treated Molly, but she was always assured by the brunette that she was fine with it.

Iris and Molly found much common ground, between science and tea and silent films and Italian food, and bonding over not having mothers through their more precious teenage years. They met out of work over coffee and bagels, Molly listening intently as Iris spoke of her years in America and studying in Wales, and Iris listened as Molly talked about horrible relationships and how she got into such gruesome work. Women, bonded over things not Sherlock related, became rather good friends in a short period of time. They often even found themselves helping said consulting detective on the same case, which they would find out after it had happened.

Iris was finally settled. She had a small network of friends, which was sure to expand, considering how nice her neighbors were, praise at her work and nothing was broken in her flat. She stayed busy and did her best not to dive into the emotional ocean that was sure to come flowing once she was settled enough to slow down and think about things. But for now, she didn't have any complaints.

88

It was May, almost two months after Iris Felton had moved to London. Holmes and Watson were on a case, led by Lestrade. It wasn't deemed homicide yet, however it was possible it would lead to that. Three woman had been kidnapped right from their homes, one every night. It wouldn't be such a high case, except the women had nothing in common except they lived alone in London. Ages and races were no matter, nothing linked them, and there were no witnesses.

It had been quiet for the forth day, with Sherlock having been on the case since the second kidnapping. It was a surprisingly difficult case, with little evidence to work with. No matter how trivial, he tried to make sense of it. It was, to be honest, good for John, who had broken up with Greta just a few days before the kidnappings. Diving into a case was just what the doctor needed, though he did send a cautionary text to her, just because he was that type of man. He was little help for the case, except for Sherlock to bounce things off of him.

It was five in the afternoon when Sherlock's phone bleeped, signaling a text. He was in the kitchen at his mini-lab, and the phone was on his seat, near to John, who was looking through his blog in a moment of downtime.

"Sher—" John stopped when he looked over at his friend and just picked up the phone and looked down at the screen. His eyebrows furrowed and he clenched his jaw, standing mechanically and walking over to Sherlock. "Sherlock."

"Not now, John," Sherlock muttered.

"Sherlock," John insisted, nudging him with the end of the phone.

Sighing, Sherlock took the phone and looked at the screen. He seemed to freeze the moment the word's processed; he didn't breathe, his expression was unreadable, and finally he swallowed.

On the screen was a single line of text:

_One flower for the bouquet. JM_


End file.
